


Getting Out of a Jam

by Jaye_Voy



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Explicit Language, Gen, Parody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 06:31:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6068806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaye_Voy/pseuds/Jaye_Voy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Voyager deals with an interspecies incident.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Getting Out of a Jam

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in 2003. Although there are a few tweaks, the story's contents (and its flaws) are mostly intact.  
> This is parody, a satirical look at life aboard the good ship Voyager and some fanfic tropes that were prevalent back in the day. You've been warned.  
> Star Trek and all related characters and concepts are the property of Paramount. No infringement is intended or profit made. This is PG-13 for language.

"I have never been so insulted in all my life!" Tom Paris huffed, puffing his perfect pink lips into a pout. He snuffled and ruffled a delicate hand through his flawlessly fluffed wavy golden curls.

"Well, Mr. Paris, I think your hissy fit is nowhere near as important as the Burtatouns going ape-shit---on us," Janeway replied, her voice kicking up more gravel than a dump truck pulling out of a quarry.

"But the Prime Minster called me a She-Male!" Tom screeched. "Just because I'm a willowy slender elegant wonder doesn't *mean* anything. I can fight with the best of them. Well, maybe not Vorik. Or B'Elanna. Or that farm girl from 'Caretaker'."

His perfect crystal-sapphire-cerulean eyes filled with tears. "This is all your fault, you Borg bitch on wheels." He glared at Seven, who shrugged and stood her ground (which was approximately 2.5673211 meters from the wall, 2 meters if she actually turned to face it).

"That's true," Janeway confirmed, the words scraping another layer of paint off the paneling as she went nose to knockers with the busty blonde. "You said they judged visitors on the beauty of their away teams. We sent them the cream of the crop."

"The apples of our eyes," Harry added.

"The top bananas in our bunch," B'Elanna concluded, getting hungry.

Seven just gave that smug smile that said "You stupid-humans-Vulcans-half-Klingons-holograms-Talaxians, you'll never know half the things I do, like how these seven-inch heels make my calves look so darn good." But when her bee-stung lips (stung by real bees) finally opened, she simply pointed out "The Burtatouns like manly men and feminine femmes. To them, Lieutenant Paris is...missing something."

"You mean there's not enough beef in his jerky?" Neelix inquired.

"Lacking pepper in his jalepeno popper?" Harry chimed in.

"Too little licorice in his whip?" B'Elanna asked, suddenly craving popcorn and gah.

"Hey!" Tom shouted, his cute aristocratic patrician nose wrinkling in a definite snit. "I do *not* resemble those remarks."

"Well, Tom," Chakotay's smooth voice caressed his mate then glided around the conference table, performing a perfect figure eight and triple axel along the way, "you have to admit people see you sitting pretty and wonder how you're sitting so pretty."

"It makes sense. To the Burtatouns, I think the condition involves having too much cream in your puff," the EMH diagnosed.

"Extraneous dough in your dumpling," Harry blurted. He almost missed his cue, pondering how those aliens didn't know squadoo about picking out a girlie-man. *He* had the distinction of screaming his head off in the first half-hour of the whole series, damn it.

"Excessive vanilla in your ice," B'Elanna finished the round, wondering if anyone still remembered the white man's first answer to rap. And how soon she could wrap herself around a quadruple-decker burger and maybe a spare set of ribs.

"Don't worry, Tom. You just need more ginger in your snap," Neelix supplied helpfully.

"Extra lemon in your ade." Harry added.

"Added dill in your pickle," B'Elanna sniggered, getting a real jones for pastrami on rye.

"But I'm the *tallest* person here!" Tom protested. "How can you not testify to my testosterone?"

Tuvok lifted one eyebrow clear off his face and waved it in the air above his head to fully demonstrate his disdain. "It is not logical to assume height illustrates your masculinity. The obvious course of action is to---oh piss on it, get real Paris. You're not exactly the stiffest wrist in the room, for Spock's sake. Besides---" and here the Vulcan pasted his eyebrow back on, a little crooked but then Chakotay's tattoo wasn't exactly a model of consistency either "---you can just chalk it up to the old adage: not every gentleman prefers blonds."

"Paris, Paris, Paris," Neelix whined, his spots scrunching to look vaguely like a map of Hawaii as he channeled Jan Brady, "why do we always have to talk about *him*. Why not talk about me?"

"OK, what about you?" Chakotay asked, his velvet tones winding like a luxurious, earth-toned ribbon in and out of peoples' ears through their empty heads.

Neelix was struck dumb. No wait, not yet. "Uh, I dunno. I cook, I chat, I baby-sit...shit I'm boring." I guess it really depends on your definition.

"Well, *I* for one want to know how we can save Voyager's bacon," the EMH stated in an irascible yet gruffly avuncular sort of way.

"Before we're toast," Harry whined. He looked at the audience. "I could do this all day."

"And our goose is cooked." B'Elanna wondered if she still had that recipe for Moo Shoo Banana Pancakes.

"It is obvious that *I* must provide the solution to this problem," Seven droned, like a drone, well an ex-drone if you don't count all the pneumatic equipment helping her defy the laws of gravity. And of course the silicone. "After all, I saved the ship in every other episode since I came aboard."

"Well, get on with it then," Janeway said as she walked around the room pawing her subordinates, who winced under the rasp of sandpaper that took the place of the velvet against their eardrums.

Seven indicated the wall panel, where a complex formula began scrolling by too quickly for anyone to read and thus realize that it was just another bunch of technobabble. "We have fulfilled our quota of cheesecake by sending down the Delaney twins, Sue Nicoletti, and some posters of Kes in that velvet catsuit from her last few episodes." Seven smirked as she thought of how much better *she* filled out hers, which was Lycra, to boot. Not to mention those boots with the seven-inch heels. "To get the needed supplies from the Burtatoun Prime Minister we just have to serve him a slab of prime beef."

"Mmmm...fresh meat," Neelix sighed dreamily, forgetting his depression.

"A hot sweat-salty snack," Harry concurred.

"I like it raw," B'Elanna growled, looking very Klingon, well as Klingon as you can get with a makeup department that can't even draw a simple tattoo accurately from week to week, "covered in butter and just waiting for me to lap up every juicy, creamy drop of..." She suddenly noticed all the *very* interested faces. "Uh, wait a minute, I meant eye candy---eye candy, yeah."

"It's obvious." Janeway picked up her mug of whiskey---who thinks it's coffee with that voice?---"We send Commander Chakotay down in a thong."

"*What?!!* Tom bellowed, his azure-aquamarine-sky-blue eyes widening. "Why him?"

"He's big---everybody says so." Janeway shrugged. "Besides, he's got a honey of a set of buns."

"A malt-liquor six-pack of abs," Harry added.

"And boy, what a brisket," B'Elanna finished, wondering if you could get indigestion from food metaphors.

"Are you sure that'll do the trick?" the Doc fretted. "Maybe we should also throw in Ayala."

"Yeah, that hot tamale Miguel will put some beans in their chili." Harry licked his lips.

"I thought it was that bodacious bit of Russian Beluga (caviar, that is) Gregor would put some beet in their borscht." B'Elanna was definitely starting to feel nauseous.

"Whatever." The three syllables exited Janeway's mouth and scraped Harry's cheek raw on their way around the room.

Chakotay stood up with a soulful, nurturing, supportive sigh and put his hand on Tom's broad, slender but still sleekly muscled shoulder. He stooped to drop a kiss on one winglike arched delicate brow. "Are you going to be OK with this, Pumpkinsugarcookie?" The husky coo wrapped Tom in satin and rubbed him all over, making goosebumps rise.

Tom's long pale creamy smooth throat arched as he stared up at his mate. "That's just the icing on the cake," he sighed.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are welcomed with great joy and constructive criticism is treasured as a rare gift.


End file.
